


Droste Effect

by StoriesWhispered



Series: Bellarke AU Week [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesWhispered/pseuds/StoriesWhispered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 1 – Canon Divergent</p><p> </p><p>It rings louder than the breath he can’t catch and the sting of his bloody knuckles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Droste Effect

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I'm about two weeks late to the party but I'm posting it anyway. Un-beta

Bellamy world has reduced into a faint chant of: _Clarke is alive. Clarke is captured. Clarke is alive. Clarke is captured. Clarke, Clarke, Clarke._

Until it finally drives him insane, clearly, it's the only explanation as to why he is dressed in dead Grounder armor, crossing in between hundreds, if not thousands of Ice Nation soldiers army. 

His steps are silent, steady as they lead him to her; across a faint trail, her small feet being dragged behind a heavier set of tracks, stumbling farther down and finally disappearing- she was probably carried at this point, he reasons, and buries the anger. He finds her seated on the ground, tied to a post, _subway station_ , a voice that sounds incredibly like Pike provides but he ignores it because she's here.

The steady _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_ roars back to life and he's crouching in front of her, without conscious thought. 

She says something akin to his name through the rag, which he quickly removes, hands moving on their own accord, the _Clarke Clarke Clarke_ has dulled into the background, so lost in the feel of her skin for a moment that he almost misses it. 

But it would take years for him to forget how to read her, the relief to panic in her eyes is the split second warning he gets to roll out of the way. The Grounder, the same one he saw through the scope, sword is swinging down, embedding the tip to the exact spot he was crouching moments ago. 

He panics for a split second, before Lincoln training kicks in, body on autopilot as he goes for a tackle, away from Clarke. 

When they first returned from the Mountain; Bellamy had moved on auto-pilot; taking care of what was left of the hundred, setting up a rotation schedule (for builders, guards, and hunting parties). He dealt with the Chancellor's disappointment, Jasper's rage and sadness, Monty’s and Harper’s nightmares and Octavia’s distance. It had been almost easy to swallow down the anger, fear and self-loathing until Lincoln suggested training together. 

Bellamy had agreed, ready to plan; the room and the who would be trained, but Lincoln stopped him before he could start. He proposed a good natured spar, to see how they worked together, and there was something in his eyes that sent Bellamy over the edge. He let loose, tackling Lincoln to the ground, trying to choke him before he could acknowledge that forgiveness was a little more than a word, and he maybe was struggling with it. Accusations of being left for dead at the mountain, chemical burns and hanging upside down- what if they had followed the plan, where would Clarke be then- were spit out angrily, and Lincoln never hit back, dodged and blocked but let Bellamy let loose for the first time since Clarke had left him standing by the gates. 

Afterwards, Lincoln just suggested a time that they could continue sparring before setting up a training room. For weeks they worked, Bellamy steadily gaining ground against Lincoln before he could bottle up his anger, push into his fist and let go. It was another month before they approached Kane with the idea for a training room, a week later bringing in recruits for beginners exercises and stretches. 

He had beat Lincoln a total of two times, by pure accident, Lincoln said he needed the right motivation; pretend your life was in danger, he had said as they grappled. As Bellamy dodges, jabs and swings fist, he sees that his motivation was a bossy, so incredibly stupid, and stunningly magnificent little blonde tied to pole. 

 ************************************ 

He wonders, as he blocks a blow, if Lincoln knew, he plans on getting a rematch when he gets back, to test the theory. 

He misses an undercut, taste blood, spits out and feels the anger rush into his fist. Everything narrows down to flesh connecting on flesh, blood singing; clarity is Clarke helpless, tied down to the ground. 

Technically, he feels the blows that his opponent is getting in, he’s pretty sure he hears a crack or two but he never falters in his attack. Even when he’s flipped into the ground, he just uses his legs to leverage him off, methodically breathing in the air he lost. Somewhere along the line they're both standing and he can hear Clarke yelling from far away but he's mostly dodging the knife that's appeared in the grounders hand.

And suddenly he's being tackled and there's a knife at his throat and he can see lips moving, can understand that he's being threatened but he can’t hear a thing. 

_Clarke, Clarke, Clarke._

It rings louder than the breath he can’t catch and the sting of his bloody knuckles.

And then suddenly the weight it gone, the Grounder is off of him, clutching his side where a dark stain is forming. For a moment, Bellamy smells the coppery tang of blood, before it’s replaced by a earthy, wet smell and there she is- _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_ \- her hair surrounding her, a golden halo as she leans over him, hands hovering. 

His breath comes erratically, pushing out of his lungs violently as he leans into her touch, hands uselessly trying to reach her. Her hands grasp him and he’s pretty sure he smiles, maybe says her name but he can’t be sure, the darkness that had been edging in, swallows him whole. 

When he comes to, he’s in the Rover, laying on the back, his head pillowed on her lap, he can feel her fingers carding across his scalp in a soothing motion. Somewhere behind the relief, aches and joy there is white hot anger, he feels bubbling and he’s sure he’ll explode; for now the never-ending loop of _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_ has dulled into a chanting lullaby, he shifts closer, cataloging his injuries with every move and blinks up at her. She’s already peering down at him, a small frown on her face, “Sleep,” she commands, he wants to fight, ask questions- are you staying? Why did you leave me?- scream and yell until the anger fades away, instead he closes his eyes and lets the darkness take him away again. 

Everything that is coming, will come, with no regard on how he feels about it, but for now he takes comfort that Clarke is here, they’ll figure the rest out eventually for now it’s enough that they’re going home, together.


End file.
